Justice Burning (Darren Street Book 2)

by Scott Pratt

  “Right. Street was at a hotel proposing to his girlfriend, from what the Knoxville police told me.”

  “But even if Street had been there, they would have killed his mother, too.”

  Grimes nodded. “They were cold-blooded about it.”

  He told Hellerman about Frazier’s girlfriend, Emma Newland, and that she had told him Frazier and Beane had killed Street’s mother. His most important witness, he said, would be the bar owner, Sammy Raft, who had positively identified Darren Street as being in the bar on the night of the shootings and threatening Sammy’s life if Sammy didn’t go into the bathroom while he killed Frazier and Beane.

  “How did he identify this Darren Street?” Hellerman asked.

  “I had an old booking photograph and a new driver’s license photo sent from Tennessee,” Grimes said.

  “Booking photo? So he has a record?”

  “He was charged with first-degree murder, convicted, and then the conviction was reversed by the trial court. He was apparently framed by a federal prosecutor named Ben Clancy, but Clancy was tried and acquitted a few weeks ago. I was notified by the Knoxville police this morning that Clancy has gone missing. His car was found five days ago, but nobody has seen him since. This Darren Street is a suspect in his disappearance. It looks like Street may have gone full-blown vigilante.”

  “Did you show him a photo lineup, include other people, or just Darren Street?”

  “I just showed him the photos of Street.”

  “That’s a problem. Outside of that, how solid is your witness?” Hellerman said.

  “Sammy Raft? To be honest, I don’t know. He isn’t the brightest crayon in the box.”

  “Did you influence his identification at all, Will? Be honest, because it’ll come out later if you did.”

  Grimes shrugged. “I may have leaned on him a little. He flip-flopped on the ID. First he said he didn’t recognize the guy in the photo, and then, after I threatened to arrest him, he called me this morning and told me he’d changed his mind. The guy in the photo is the same guy that was in his bar, but he had a beard and was wearing glasses and a hat.”

  “And you think he’s right?” Hellerman said.

  “I can’t be positive, but it makes sense. The owner said this guy came in and asked him whether he loved his mother. Then the guy told him Frazier and Beane raped his mother and he was there to kill them. He told the owner he could either go into the bathroom or die with them. The owner went into the bathroom and the shooting started.”

  “Do you have any forensics?”

  “Just a bunch of nine-millimeter shell casings. No gun to match them to.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing. We went over the bar thoroughly and didn’t get so much as a partial print. We’ve canvassed, we’ve checked every hotel in a fifty-mile radius, we’ve looked at security camera footage from dozens of places and have come up empty.”

  “So the bar owner, what’s his name?”

  “Sammy Raft.”

  “So Sammy Raft, is it? He’s pretty much our entire case?”

  “Pretty much, depending on whether you can get other evidence of Street’s mother being murdered in front of a jury.”

  “Let’s say I’m able to do that, which, to be honest, would be difficult. But let’s say I’m able to say that this man is accused of killing two convicted felons with long records who blew up his mother’s house and murdered her. This is a classic jury nullification case, Will. His lawyer would use the ‘sumbitch needed killing’ defense. The jury would let him go because the sumbitches he killed needed killing. And if that doesn’t seem to be working, the defense will say Sammy killed them himself. I don’t know what his motive would be, but a good defense lawyer will find one.”

  “What do you want me to do, James?” Grimes said. “Tank it? We have a double murder here, a nasty one. It was an execution, pure and simple. My job is to find the killer and bring him to justice. Do you want me to just let it go?”

  “Just keep grinding,” Hellerman said. “That’s your reputation. Keep grinding, and maybe eventually something will break. For now, though, I wouldn’t feel comfortable arresting him. I could take it to a grand jury and probably get an indictment just based on what the bartender told you, but if we wind up going to trial, he’s going to face cross-examination, and from what you’ve told me, I don’t think he’ll hold up. Let’s just wait and see if something else comes up.”

  Grimes shook his head in frustration. He understood to a degree, but he hated it when lawyers, especially prosecutors, were being overly cautious. If they could indict Street, arrest him, and get him in jail, they’d have a lot better chance of the case breaking open.

  “And if he killed that federal prosecutor in Knoxville, too?”

  “That’s not our problem, is it, Will?”

  “Guess not.”

  The district attorney stood, indicating to Grimes he’d made his decision and the meeting was over.

  “Come back when you have more,” Hellerman said. “And if you don’t get more, don’t worry about it too much. From everything I’ve heard about the Frazier and Beane clans around here, I don’t think the community lost a whole lot.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Two days after Ben Clancy went missing, I received a call from Marty Henley, the old friend and lawyer who had allowed me to use his family’s property in Petros to target-shoot.

  “I’m hearing some bad things about you, Darren,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the police think you killed a couple of guys in West Virginia.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Marty.”

  “Pretty strange coincidence, don’t you think? You call me up out of the blue and ask me if you can shoot on our land, and then a couple of weeks later these two guys get blown away. Two guys who just so happen to be suspected of bombing your mother’s house in an attempt to kill you.”

  “You’ve been talking to a lot of people,” I said.

  “I’ve been listening to a lot of people. Haven’t done much talking.”

  “Have any of these people you’ve been listening to been wearing badges and carrying guns?”

  “No, this is just shoptalk. Lawyer gossip.”

  “Why are you calling me, Marty?”

  “To tell you that I don’t care one way or another about what you may or may not have done.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Good. Just do me one favor, okay? If the worst happens, and you wind up getting arrested, please don’t mention to the police or anyone else that I gave you permission to shoot on my family’s property. Lawsuits could be filed. I could be harassed by an overzealous police officer, who might accuse me of being some kind of accomplice.”

  “I’m not going to get arrested, Marty, because I didn’t do anything. But if, by some bizarre twist of fate, I do wind up being arrested, I promise your name will never be mentioned. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, and one more thing: probably best if you don’t go back up there.”

  “It’s your property.”

  “Thanks, Darren. Good luck.”

  I was getting used to hearing about the gossip at this point. I’d even heard from a couple of journalists who said they were contemplating writing a story about the police’s suspicions that I was involved in the West Virginia murders and perhaps the disappearance of Ben Clancy. I, of course, responded by telling them that I’d own their newspapers if they printed that kind of malicious gossip without any proof. So far they’d held off, but even if they did print a story at some point, I just figured it would be more publicity for me, and publicity, good or bad, always seemed to generate business.

  I laid my phone on my desk and mused at the irony. Most lawyers who wanted publicity spent thousands on advertising. All they really had to do was kill a few people, and they’d get all the attention they could stand.

  CHAPTER 33

  The young woman was flawless.


  She came into my office a week after we’d dispatched Ben Clancy. I stood when she walked in, although I have to admit my knees went a little weak. She was about an inch shorter than I was, and she had gleaming black hair and sapphire eyes. Her nose was petite and perfect, her jawline fine and sharp, her teeth bright white, and her lips full and pink. All of this sat above a body that could only be described as centerfold-worthy. She was a truly stunning physical specimen, a trophy in every sense of the word, but she seemed oblivious to the vibe she put out. She radiated sensuality like a cell-phone tower radiated a signal, but she wore conservative clothes and little if any makeup. She was wearing a navy-blue business suit with a knee-length skirt, a button-up blouse that was tight on her breasts, and black shoes with spiked, maybe two-inch heels.

  I offered my hand, introduced myself, and invited her to sit down. She told me her name was Katherine Davis.

  “I’m embarrassed to be here,” she said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’ve been charged with a crime, and I’m anything but a criminal.”

  “What’s the charge?” I said.

  “Driving under the influence.”

  “First offense?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I rarely drink, and I didn’t have a drop that night.”

  “Drugs?” I asked.

  “I guess. I actually have absolutely no memory of what happened. I woke up in jail and had no idea how I got there.”

  I’d handled a couple of hundred DUI cases over the years. They had become one of my specialties. I’d had clients who told me they didn’t remember anything, but all of them had blood-alcohol counts that were nearly triple the legal limit. This beautiful young lady must have taken a heavy dose of drugs.

  “You said, ‘I guess,’ when I asked you about drugs. What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t use drugs, but I’m a graduate student at UT in the criminal-justice program, and we were in finals week. I’d been up studying all night for a couple of nights, but I couldn’t turn my mind off and get any real sleep. I was talking to one of my friends about it because I had an important test two days later, and she said, ‘I have something that I guarantee will help you sleep. I’ll bring it by your place later.’ She came by later and dropped off one little pill. I guess I was pretty desperate, because I took it.”

  “Ambien?” I said.

  “Right,” she said. “I took the pill, went to bed, and the next thing I know I’m in jail, in my pajamas. Bare feet. The police report says I was weaving on Paper Mill Road at 1:30 a.m. and that I failed the field sobriety tests the officer gave me. I don’t remember a single bit of it. Not a bit. Do you think you can help me? I’ve already been accepted to the UT law school in the fall. I want to be a prosecutor. If I get convicted of DUI, it’s going to cause me a lot of problems. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve never been in any kind of trouble before, I swear it. Nothing. No juvenile record. I’ve never been arrested, never even had a speeding ticket. I guess I shouldn’t have taken that pill, but I had no idea something like this would happen.”

  “Did you read the label on the bottle?” I said.

  “She didn’t give me the bottle. She just brought me the pill in a plastic baggie.”

  “I think I can help you,” I said. “I can’t guarantee it, but I think I can talk the prosecutor and the cop out of this one after they hear the circumstances.”

  I’d been pleasantly surprised by the attitude shown toward me by the local prosecutors and police officers. Many of them had to know I was a suspect in the West Virginia murders, but if they did—with the exception of Dawn Rule and Lawrence Kingman—they didn’t seem to care. None of them had stopped speaking to me, and I hadn’t gotten the sense that they were treating me any differently than before. I’d become somewhat of a celebrity after Grace helped me get my conviction for murder reversed, and I’d become a sympathetic figure after my mom was killed. As far as I could tell, the respect and the sympathy they had showed me in the past hadn’t changed.

  “The biggest problem we have is that driving under the influence is what they call a ‘strict liability crime’ in Tennessee,” I said to Katherine. “That means the state doesn’t have to prove criminal intent. It’s similar to speeding. If they catch you speeding, they don’t have to prove you intended to speed. In a DUI case, all they have to prove is that you were operating a vehicle on a public road and you were under the influence. Can you get me transcripts of your grades and a copy of your acceptance letter to law school?”

  “I can do that.” She reached into her purse and brought out a tissue. A tear slid down her lovely left cheek. “I’d be so grateful if you can help me get out of this.”

  “Please don’t cry,” I said. “I think you’re going to be all right. Did they do a blood draw at the jail or take you to the hospital, or do you even know?”

  “I have no clue,” she said. “I’ve been so worried and so terrified that everything I’ve worked for would be ruined because I took a stupid pill. I can promise you one thing. I’ll never do it again.”

  “It helps a lot that you didn’t hurt anybody,” I said. “Or yourself. I’m really glad you didn’t hurt yourself.”

  She looked at me curiously, and I felt my cheeks warm. I’d just given her the impression that I was attracted to her. It was unprofessional, and I immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  She smiled easily. “No problem. I like you, too. So tell me, do you enjoy what you do? I want to work for the DA’s office, but I hear a lot of stories about defense lawyers being drunks and drug addicts and hating themselves and what they do.”

  “I’m not a drunk or a drug addict,” I said, “but to be honest, what I do can be difficult sometimes. I look at my job as nothing more than being the guy that ensures the government and all the people it employs play by their own rules. They make the rules, so I think they should have to follow them. All the time. No shortcuts, no cheating, no lying. If you become one of them, I’ll expect you to play fair.”

  It was strange hearing myself say those things, because I still genuinely felt that way, with one very important exception. The exception was that if a crime was committed against me or someone in my family, then I would take care of it myself. Screw the government, its employees, and its rules.

  “Do a lot of police officers lie?” she said.

  “I wouldn’t say a lot, but some of them do. Once they make an arrest, they want a conviction, and some of them will do anything to get that conviction. It becomes a game to them. Some prosecutors are the same way. Once they have an indictment, they think they have to have a conviction. But like I said, those people are in the minority, and I hope you won’t be one of them. My clients? Different story. About ninety percent of them lie to me. I expect them to lie. I was expecting you to lie, but I don’t think you are. That’s refreshing.”

  “Everything I’ve told you is the absolute truth,” she said.

  “That’s rare around here,” I said. “You said you read the report. Did you bring it with you?”

  “I did,” and she went back into her purse. She handed it to me, and I read it.

  “You caught a break,” I said. “The arresting officer is Earl Anderson. He’s one of the good guys. He won’t want to jam you up after I talk to him and tell him what happened.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time,” I said. “I know a lot of the officers. When do you have to go to court again?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Earl will be there that day and we can get it taken care of so you won’t have to worry anymore. Sometimes the officers don’t show up. They’re working an accident or there might be a scheduling problem or they’re sick. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll have to move it a few more weeks down the road. If, for whatever reason, Earl and the prosecutor won’t back off and insist on pushing this, we’ll take it to Criminal C
ourt and try it in front of a jury. You’ll make a very presentable and sympathetic witness.”

  “I almost hope he doesn’t show up,” Katherine said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if he doesn’t show up, I’ll get to see you again.” She smiled broadly and stood.

  My stomach fluttered. “I’m a little old for you, don’t you think? I’m also sort of semi-engaged.”

  “You’re not that old. What does semi-engaged mean?”

  “It means I have a girlfriend I don’t talk to very much.”

  “Well, a girl can always hope,” she said. “Do I make arrangements to pay you with your secretary?”

  I nodded and reached for the stack of business cards that was sitting on my desk. I wrote my cell phone number on the back and handed it to her. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Do you give your cell number to all your clients?”

  “No.”

  She reached out to shake my hand and I took it. As she pulled her hand away, she grazed my palm with her fingernails, and I felt a shudder of electricity run through me.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  She turned and walked slowly—very slowly—out of the room. I was practically drooling by the time she was out of sight.

  CHAPTER 34

  Will Grimes was living up to the reputation District Attorney James Hellerman had spoken of. He was still grinding, still thinking, still investigating. He didn’t think Darren Street would have been able to simply drive to West Virginia, shoot Frazier and Beane, and drive back to Tennessee. He would have done some surveillance. He would have followed Frazier and Beane, stalked them, and picked his time to strike, which meant he would have had to stay in or around Cowen for at least a day or two. Grimes also wondered whether Street had had some help, someone in West Virginia who was feeding him information.

  On a breezy Friday morning, Grimes walked into a small brick home on the west end of Cowen. Lester Routh, a longtime burglar, drug dealer, drug addict, and informant for the West Virginia State Police, lived in the home along with five cats and a woman named Lucille. Lucille worked at a convenience store about a mile down the road and wasn’t home. Lester had wanted to meet when she wouldn’t be there, and he’d asked Grimes to wear civilian clothes and park at least a half mile away.